


Once More With Feeling

by greyhorizon



Series: Vegas-verse [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyhorizon/pseuds/greyhorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to All That Ends Well, so a return to Vegas-verse (actually in Vegas this time). Oliver, Felicity, Vegas girls & Mama Smoak. A quiet time ahead for all really. Starts with angst because, well, it's Olicity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once More With Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> I think one of the keys to a happy life is to surround yourself with honourable men and amazing women. I'm doing okay with this at the moment - Grey

Oliver sat at the bar, flummoxed, desolate. His chest felt heavy, and at the same time, not his own. He had a lump at the back of his throat, and his breath was harsh and hard to come by.

He'd really fucked up this time. Not by coming to Vegas, but by walking away in the first place. She didn't want him back. He'd broken whatever invisible cords had kept them bound, and he didn't know how to fix it. Fix them.

She felt a million miles away from him, in her room a few flights up.

He felt hopeless, and for the first time since he'd met her, truly alone again.

Not wanting to move, not wanting to sit still.

He tossed back his drink, straight vodka burning down. Numb. Numb seemed like a good end. And nothing else was rising to the fore to challenge it.

He shifted in his seat, the dark leather squeaking slightly. A flash of red and blonde in his periphery; his pulse picked up. A waft of perfume. Pulse petered off. Not hers.

'So, what are you doing to my girl, Oliver?'

Oliver looked up from his scarred, toughened hands cradling the glass of clear liquid, browned and goldened by the ambient light of the bar.

His blue eyes encountered blue. Concerned, challenging.

He sighed a deep, hopeless breath out. 

'Donna,' he said in acknowledgement, turning back to his drink.

Donna settled herself on the stool next to him. Tight, red dress kept surprisingly demure by years of practice moving, walking, serving, in similar dresses and skittering heels, Vegas waitress-style. Her immaculate golden hair falling down her back to the base of the seat, her hand resting on the burnished, wooden bar.

'I'm her mother Oliver. I know when she's not happy. And she's not.'

He looked across and smiled painfully at her, almost a grimace.

'Yep. I, ah...'. He breathed out loudly. 'That's on me.'

Donna studied him. Silence tolled out in beats.

'You're an idiot,' she said, matter-of-factly. Red nails clicking a cadence on the bar.

Oliver's brow creased in annoyance. Why did people keep calling him that? He was trying, at least. What did everybody want from him?

Donna's eyes softened with pity. This poor, handsome, hurting man.

'She loves you, you know. And I do know my daughter, Oliver. When she loves, she holds on. And all her genius, all her thinking, doesn't make a dent.'

'Well, that sounds...great,' he said, tossing his head a little drunkenly. 'Unfortunately, I think it's a little too late. I came here, I tried to speak to her, but she doesn't want me here.'

'She loves you, Oliver. Like nothing I've seen in her before,' Donna's voice was firm, implacable.

Oliver clenched his glass, almost willing it to break and bleed him. 

'I don't know what else to do!' 

Frustration giving his voice its edge.

Donna didn't even blink at his outburst. Decades of drunken Vegas, she had pretty much dealt with it all.

'So, you just need a little help getting her back. You do know when to ask for help, Oliver?'

'It's not...what people would normally associate me with.'

'Well, maybe it's time to learn.'

Oliver looked over at her, laughing out bewilderment tinged with a drop of relief. He could see where her daughter may have gotten it from.

'Oh, and Oliver?'

'Yes Donna.'

'This will be the last time you and I will ever have a conversation about how to fix my daughter's broken heart. Is that clear?'

Oliver took her meaning as the threat it was.

He nodded. 'Clear.'

'Well then, let's get to work.' Donna slid off the stool and grabbed her bag, watching as Oliver paid off his tab with the bartender, before slipping his wallet back into the pocket of his suit pants.

He cleared his throat. 'So, ah, what exactly are you...we...planning to do? I mean, Felicity's usually the one that comes up with the plan.' Oliver clamped his lips together. Damn alcohol. 'For work stuff.'

Mama Smoak just looked up at him slyly and smiled.


End file.
